Supercarrier: The Ixan Prophecies Trilogy Book 1

by Scott Bartlett

  Simpson turned to face her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you lost the primaries. Anyone paying attention should have been able to see you were the only honest person in the running. If you ask me, I think your party cheated you out of the candidacy.”

  I think you’re right. But it would be political suicide to go around saying that. Such was the devious genius of the system she operated in.

  Instead, she said, “This is important work, too. And I’m glad to be doing it.”

  A smirk tugged at Simpson’s mouth. “Seriously? The Wingers’ new armaments? You really think it’s even worth inspecting them? I mean, suppose they are building some new toys, there’s no way they’ll ever be a match for dark tech.”

  “It’s not their armaments that worry me—I’m sure they’re merely a precautionary measure against the unrest in the Bastion Sector. It’s the state of our relationship with the Wingers that robs my sleep. They hate us, Corporal. And so does every other species that isn’t us.”

  “So what? Again. Dark tech. We completely own them.”

  A speaker nearby beeped, and the captain’s voice emerged. “This is Captain Dempsey. We are now generating the wormhole that will take us above the Winger homeworld, Spire. If you experience any ill effects, please report to Doctor Ahmadi straight away. Prepare for transit and energy recapture.”

  “What if, one day, we find we can no longer rely on dark tech?” Senator Bernard said, picking up the conversation from where they’d left off.

  “I don’t see how that could happen. The science behind it is kept a secret. It’s not like we’d allow anyone to steal it.”

  “We may stop using it voluntarily.”

  “Why in Sol would we do that?”

  “Because it’s so damaging to our relations with other species! The very fact that we keep dark tech from the others…we claim it’s for the security of the galaxy, but the aliens all know it’s really about maintaining human dominance.”

  “What would you rather? Ixan dominance?”

  Bernard blinked at the young marine. “Of course not.”

  Corporal Simpson pushed herself away from the window. “Sorry, Senator. I got carried away. Listen, I’m supposed to meet a friend for lunch. Would you like to join?”

  “Sure.”

  The marine brought her com to her ear, and after a few seconds she frowned. “Weird. No answer.”

  “Might your friend have been called in for some overtime?”

  “Maybe. He’s normally in charge of the Nav station in the CIC. I’ll call up a livefeed real quick, see if he’s there now.” Simpson stared down at her com, and after a second the blood began to drain from her face.

  “What is it, Corporal? What’s the matter?”

  “I…I just watched everyone in the CIC disappear.”

  “Disappear how?”

  “They just…disappeared. Vanished. Like, in a wave. It started at one end and went to the other.” Simpson turned the com screen toward Bernard. It showed an empty CIC.

  “Check another part of the ship. Something closer to us.”

  They both stared at the com screen as Simpson switched between feeds. One chamber after another, personnel simply vanished.

  “It’s the wormhole,” Bernard said. “There’s something wrong with the wormhole. We need to get off this ship, now. Can you fly one of the shuttles?”

  “We’re all trained in basic navigation. For emergencies. Let’s go.”

  Simpson opened the hatch into the nearest shuttle. Luckily, they didn’t have to wait for anything to pressurize—the shuttles were kept filled with atmosphere at all times, for quick departures. Like this one.

  The marine ordered the shuttle bay doors opened, and the cold void appeared before them, stars winking at them through the widening aperture. Simpson sealed the shuttle entrance and the craft leapt forward, departing the Buchanan for the last time.

  “Bring up a rear view screen,” the senator said, feeling absurd about being the one giving orders. But Simpson complied without question.

  The display showed the Buchanan’s stern disappearing into the wormhole. Their shuttle had escaped just in time.

  Wait… “Without the crew aboard, who will initiate energy recapture once the wormhole collapses?”

  “It’s automatic,” Simpson said, her voice barely above a whisper. “As a failsafe, in case something happens to the crew.”

  “Thank God.” Dark-tech-enabled ships were designed to recapture the enormous amount of energy it took to generate wormholes, using a conductor that projected from the stern. That allowed UHF warships to appear near targets not only without warning, but also with all of their weapons fully charged.

  An uncontrolled collapse, however, would result in a colossal explosion. Their shuttle would definitely not have survived it.

  But Senator Sandy Bernard’s relief did not last long. She felt her throat constrict as she realized the Buchanan would exit the wormhole on a collision course with Spire.

  Without its crew to level her out into orbit, the warship would fall to the Winger homeworld.

  Chapter 7

  Fesky

  Husher rolled out of his bunk after just a couple hours of troubled sleep.

  The same nightmare had played over in his head at least three times, and he couldn’t take any more of it. Leng had just been shot, but he was still breathing, and so Husher picked him up, bulling his way through the crowd, shouting for help.

  Somehow, Leng grew heavier with every step, but no one moved to help with the burden. At last, Husher stumbled into a hospital, only to find it empty. Instead of doctors and nurses and patients, explosives lined every wall, each attached to a giant timer. Each timer seconds away from detonation.

  Shaking off the last vestiges of the awful dream, he decided his time would be more productively spent exploring the Providence and trying to uncover whatever Keyes was trying to hide from him. Husher’s inclusion on the Thessaly mission hadn’t made any sense. It reeked of a hasty measure meant to buy the captain enough time to cover his tracks, and Husher was determined to discover exactly what he’d become a part of, here. Other than sacrificing civilian hospitals to some vague ideal.

  Stumbling into the Officers’ Mess, he immediately became convinced that he’d found Keyes’s secret. Sitting near the back wall, watching something on a com, was a Winger.

  It hadn’t noticed him, which meant Husher still had the opportunity to depart the mess undetected. But he remained, staring at the creature, and he soon realized his mouth hung agape. He shut it, teeth clicking together, and the bird-thing’s head snapped toward him so fast that it barely seemed to move at all. One instant it was looking at the tablet, and the next it was piercing Husher with its enormous onyx eyes.

  “Human.” The bird rose to its full height, which wasn’t very tall—it only came to Husher’s chest. Even though their homeworld had low gravity, the Wingers had stayed short. Any taller, and they wouldn’t have been able to fly.

  Husher took a step forward, with a notion of trying to act casual. Just stroll in and take a seat like nothing’s weird about this at all. But he couldn’t make himself do it. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s a good question. Why are you here?”

  “I was demoted and consigned to this bucket of bolts.”

  “You might say I, too, was demoted. Actually, exiled would be more accurate.”

  “Wingers aren’t allowed on human warships.” Regulations stood firm on the matter: they forbade aliens, to deny them the opportunity to get a look at the dark tech used to generate wormholes. If any species managed to reverse engineer that, the UHF would lose its ability to “maintain law and order throughout the galaxy.”

  “Captain Keyes owed me a favor,” the alien said.

  “Must have been a big favor.” Keyes could easily lose his command over this. True, the Providence was one of the few human warships not outfitted with wormhole generation. But still. That didn’t confer an exemption from
regulation.

  “It was. A big one.”

  Husher stepped closer, fascinated in spite of himself. The creature resembled a giant falcon more than anything, with brown feathers speckled in places with white. “I’m Husher.”

  “Call me Fesky.” The creature shifted its giant wings as it extended an arm with talon-like fingers at the tip. “This is how you humans greet each other.”

  “It is.” Husher grasped the talons, finding them softer than he’d expected. The grip was firm, however. What the Wingers lacked in height, they made up for in upper-body strength.

  “Among my people, greetings vary based on gender. As a female, I’m to regurgitate a small portion of my last meal. But I’ve discovered some humans find it unpleasant.”

  Husher swallowed. “Uh, yeah, I could see how some might find that unpleasant.” He glanced at Fesky’s com, lying flat on the table. “What are you watching? Is that an Ixan?”

  “Yes. A priest.” Fesky gestured at the seat beside her, and Husher sat.

  He stared at the Ixan’s scarlet robes, which sat perfectly still as its mouth moved. Ixans always seemed to be smiling creepily, but Husher found their enormous domes even more off-putting, not to mention the scaly skin that stretched across them. The skin was faded wherever it met one of many bone protrusions, and the older the Ixan, the more faded the skin. This priest’s scales were faded almost to white in some spots, especially around its muzzle.

  Fesky had her com muted, but Husher could guess what was being said. “You’re watching the Ixan Prophecies. Aren’t you?”

  The Winger twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

  “Why are you watching that crap?”

  “Why do you call it feces?”

  “Everyone knows it’s crap. It’s propaganda, and it’s pathetic. They know how thoroughly we defeated them, so all they have left is trying to scare people with their mad ravings about them rising up again while humanity falls.”

  “The Ixa gave you dark tech.”

  “Ochrim gave us dark tech. He’s not like his brethren—he came over to our side once he realized what Baxa and the other Ixans were planning. He knew we’d be a lot more responsible with that level of power.”

  “And have you?”

  “Have we what?”

  “Have you been responsible stewards of dark tech?”

  Husher stared into Fesky’s featureless orbs. Then he looked away. “No. I guess we haven’t.”

  The mess hall’s lighting went red, and a muted alarm sounded from the hallway. A panicked-sounding voice blared from the intercom: “General quarters! General quarters! Set condition one throughout the ship. This is not a drill! I repeat…”

  “Holy shit.” Sounds like I’ll be needed for something other than my xenodiplomacy skills. “I need to get to the flight deck.”

  Fesky leapt to her feet in a surge of feathers, and Husher felt a breeze blow over him. “I, too,” she said.

  “Yeah? What’s your position aboard the ship?”

  “I’m CAG.”

  “What? You’re my boss?”

  “Well…I’m secret CAG. Lieutenant Hornwood is officially CAG. But he barely knows a Condor from a cream puff.”

  “This ship is weird.” Husher rushed out of the Officer’s Mess, and Fesky followed close behind.

  Chapter 8

  Roostship

  “You know anything about this, Bug-eye?” someone shouted as Husher and Fesky burst into one of Flight Deck A’s ready rooms.

  Fesky didn’t seem fazed by the insult. “Know about what? What’s happening?” The Winger was beginning to tremble, which Husher assumed was a sign of distress.

  “We’re being attacked by a Winger Roostship.”

  “What?” Fesky squawked. Her feathers flared along her head and neck, and she vibrated harder, her wings tense. “Now I have to fight my own?”

  “Fesky, are you gonna be all right?” Husher said. “Can you do this?”

  “I’m fine.” She seemed to compose herself a little, and she crossed the room, her stride reminiscent of how Husher assumed velociraptors must have walked. The Winger seized a stylus from a ledge under the smartboard and began to draw a circle. “We’re still in orbit over Thessaly, yes?”

  “Affirmative,” someone said. “And we need to move quickly. The Roostship’s already launched four squadrons of Talons.”

  “Squadrons of fleas, you mean,” Fesky said, though she didn’t sound very confident, and no one laughed. Everyone knew Wingers were natural-born pilots. She drew two smaller circles near the planet. “What’s our position relative to Thessaly’s moons?”

  “We’re close to Achilles.”

  “Of course we are.” Fesky crossed out one of the smaller circles and drew an arrow pointing at the remaining one. “I want an early warning squadron of four Condors to run recon behind Achilles. The Wingers would love nothing more than to catch us with our pants down and our blind spots unchecked.”

  An officer standing at the back of the ready room elected to speak at that moment. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Husher assumed that was Lieutenant Hornwood—the CAG in name.

  “You can shut up,” Fesky shrieked, the last two words sounding exactly like a crow cawing.

  “Okay, but, why would the Wingers attack us? They must know the UHF will just beat their brains in—”

  “Shut up!” Fesky jumped in place, reminding Husher of a sparrow hopping across the ground in search of food. “Shut up!”

  “All right, all right. Jeez, Fesky.”

  Fesky wasn’t listening anymore. She was sketching the enemy Roostship. “Two electronic warfare squadrons will operate at the edge of the engagement. Wingers rely heavily on coordination—they’re poor when acting alone. And they can’t coordinate without coms. Deny them that, and we win. I don’t want these two EW squadrons engaging at all. Disengage as soon as they start targeting you, then come back for another go. At the very least, the harassment will help distract the enemy. Knock them off their game.”

  Finally, Fesky turned to face the room once more. “The rest of you, remember your training. Maintain formations. If you were wondering why I had you drill Winger tactics while you called me crazy, this is it. Dark tech lets our Condors reverse course quicker. We have Ocharium, they don’t. We’re faster in general. More responsive. If we use those advantages, we can overcome their better instincts. Now scramble.”

  The room remained still, everyone tensing, staring at Fesky, staring at each other.

  “Scramble!” Fesky yelled, and the ready room burst into action. “Husher, you’re with me. There’s a Condor already prepped for you. I had preflight alignment performed on it the moment you arrived on the Providence.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I want to see what you can do.”

  They ran together to the room outside Flight Deck A’s airlock to don their flight suits.

  “What formation will we join?” Husher said.

  “Formation? Ha! Hate formations.”

  “But you just said—”

  Fesky paused with her talons on her suit’s pants leg, her head whipping upward to fix Husher with that penetrating gaze of hers. “I’m the best Winger pilot you’ll ever meet, and I fly a fighter more advanced than anything my species has ever laid its talons on. So I’ll tell you how this will go. I’m going to fly loops around the enemy, and you’re going to shoot them down. Your file says you’re good. You’re good, right? For a human?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then hopefully you can keep up.”

  Chapter 9

  No Micromanager

  “Husher, I want you accelerating at a rate of eight Gs at the nearest squadron of Wingers.”

  He tried to maintain focus on the tactical display inside his helmet, which showed the Wingers mostly staying near their Roostship. “Eight Gs? How familiar are you with human anatomy exactly, Fesky?”

  There was a pause, and Husher got the impression Fesky was s
urprised by the remark. “Our g-suits are rated for up to ten.”

  It’s gonna be a workout to stay conscious at that acceleration. But Husher engaged the Condor’s gyroscopes to point his dorsal weapons at the enemy squadron and began gunning the engine. He was starting to understand why Keyes was willing to risk a court-martial in order to have Fesky leading his Condor pilots. The Winger was clearly willing to leverage the limits of the human body for maximum tactical advantage.

  Fesky continued: “At eight Gs of acceleration, you can—”

  “Maximize the damage of kinetic impactors while minimizing enemy reaction time. Yeah. I understand the principle, Fesky.”

  “I’m relieved. The enemy’s behavior is strange. The squadron I told you to engage is the only one on the offensive. Every other Winger squadron has adopted a defensive posture.”

  Husher’s Condor was already exerting uncomfortable pressure on his body, and he flexed his legs and abdominals to encourage blood flow. The flight suits only enabled high-g acceleration with some help from the pilot—if he just sat there, the blood would pool in his legs and he’d black out.

  “I don’t have time to discuss the particulars of Winger grand strategy right now, Fesky. What do you want me to do as I zip past the opposing squadron?”

  “I’m a delegator, not a micromanager. Figure it out.”

  “Are you serious?” He could barely grunt out the words. The pressure exerted on his body was immense.

  “I told you I wanted to see what you can do.”

  But Husher knew Fesky’s true intentions, and like any good experimenter, she hadn’t revealed them to her subject. Fesky wanted to know whether Husher could follow orders, even in extreme circumstances. His record suggested a rebellious streak, so she needed to find out whether he was actually dependable. This charge at the enemy squadron closely resembled a suicide run, not a fair test of his abilities.

  Certainly, taking out some enemy ships couldn’t hurt his cause. Except, do I actually care about impressing Fesky? Or anyone in the Fleet? They’d already punished him for doing the right thing. What was the point of playing the model soldier now?